Curse that world of dreams which spins
without my input, which takes advantage
of my exhaustion and plummets me into
scenes I would rather never face.
Always they’re from some memory, long ago
buried, too minuscule to protect or reject,
blown open in horror hypotheses:
“What if this was my life?”
And always I’m forced to confront them alone,
with no knowledge that you exist, no hope
of escaping the worlds I trudged through
long before we met.